


Milk and Honey

by the_alchemist



Category: 12th Century CE RPF
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Personification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-23
Updated: 2012-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-22 04:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/605875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/pseuds/the_alchemist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baldwin IV, the leper king of Jerusalem, is visited on his deathbed by a beautiful stranger who is oddly familiar to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Milk and Honey

**Author's Note:**

  * For [byzantienne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/byzantienne/gifts).



_"A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation, and bitter weeping: Rachel weeping for her children."_

There were two reasons why Baldwin was surprised to see a beautiful woman, olive-skinned and black-haired, sitting on his bed. The first was that although he had done more things during his short life than anyone could have imagined possible, none of them so far had involved beautiful women so much as coming near his bedroom.

Perhaps surprisingly, Baldwin's virginity didn't have anything to do with the fact he was hideously disfigured: that sort of thing doesn't much matter when you're a powerful King. And neither was it doubt about what he could safely _do_ with a beautiful woman: Baldwin was all about taking calculated risks. It was quite simply that he didn't have time.

For most people, dying of leprosy is a fulltime job, at least when it gets as bad as it had for Baldwin several years ago. Lying down, whimpering with pain, and helplessly observing your body bit by bit stop functioning are the main activities you might expect to undertake, and certainly not riding to victory at the head of a vastly outnumbered army against a military genius like Saladin. Baldwin, however, took his duties as King of Jerusalem very seriously.

He sometimes liked to pretend that the parts of his life that didn't involve smiting the infidel were full of ordinary things like reading books, drinking wine and courting ladies, but in fact they consisted solely of unremitting pain and awfulness. As did the infidel-smiting parts, for that matter. And three weeks ago, just when he thought it couldn't get any worse, he went blind. Which was the second of the two reasons why he was surprised to see a beautiful woman on his bed, looking down at him with a sorrowful and sympathetic face.

"Who are you?" he asked. His jaw was swollen and speaking was difficult.

She smiled the kind of smile that made Baldwin want to leap out of bed and slay dragons for her. "I'm the one you love," she said, and despite not having seen her before, Baldwin knew at once it was true. Whoever she was, he knew her more intimately than a lover, would die for her, would live for her, to do her service would endure a thousand thousand times more pain than he had already.

His dying brain grasped towards an explanation. "You're one of those things," he said. "A ... a ..." Please God, let his memory not be going too.

"An hallucination?" suggested the woman.

"No," said Baldwin. "Well, yes. Obviously you're an hallucination, but I meant a metaphor." He looked up at her. At first he had thought she might be a Jewess, but now he thought she looked more like the Infidels from Syria. Yet she dressed and spoke like a noblewoman from a Christian court. "What's your name?" he asked.

"You can call me Jerusalem."

"Ha!" He twisted the corners of his mouth upward in something like a triumphant smile. "So you _are_ a metaphor then. And not a very subtle one either."

"Well, nor are you."

"Me?" Baldwin wheezed a laugh. "I'm not a metaphor. Do I look like anything other than flesh and blood?"

"You look a mess," said the woman.

"Well," said Baldwin, uncharacteristically abashed.

They were silent for a few seconds. "Sorry," said the woman. "I didn't mean to be rude."

"Am I dying?" asked Baldwin.

"There's no such thing," said the woman. "There's only life and life eternal."

Baldwin took this in. He wasn't ready to die yet: there was so much left to do. He glanced over at the window.

"Do you want to take a last look?" asked the woman. "I can help you sit up."

Baldwin nodded. She was very gentle: gentler than his doctors or any of his servants, gentler than his mother or sister. She sat him up and put pillows behind his back. He looked down at the city.

"What do you see?" asked the woman.

He saw burnt-out houses, empty market stalls, beggars. Although Saladin's army had not reached the city, war had taken its toll. "It looks a mess," he said.

The woman helped him lie down again. "Tell me," he said. "What happens next? Does Jerusalem stand or fall?"

"Jerusalem is eternal," said the woman. "But not unchanging."

"Saladin wins then?" said Baldwin. "All I did was for nothing? I might just as well have lain down and died the first time I wanted to?" Angry tears sprang to his eyes. "God," he said, unsure even himself whether he were swearing or praying.

They were silent for a while. Then "What if I don't die?" said Baldwin. "Not dying isn't hard, I've been doing it for years. What if I refuse to die? They can strap a sword to my hand again, and put me on a horse and ... and ..." He lost the thread of what he was saying, and started to weep properly, like a child.

The woman got into bed beside him, and folded her arms around him, stroking his back. She was bigger and taller than him: most people were. He buried his face in her neck and wept until there were no more tears left. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," said the woman, enveloping him in the miraculous softness of her garments.

Baldwin reached up and touched her face: her skin was wet with tears. "They why can't you do something?" he said. "About Saladin? If you're really Jerusalem herself, why can't you rise up and–" He blinked. "What just happened?" he said. Everything was different.

 

"It's finished," said the doctor. "He's dead."

The courtiers and family members around his bed crossed themselves. "It's strange," said one. "For a while he looked happy. Blissfully happy." And they were silent for a moment before descending into the platitudes and machinations that always accompany the death of kings.

 

(The woman kissed him on the lips, a lover's kiss. "We're done with time now," she said. "This is eternity.")

 

Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn eyed his opponent as she selected a pawn to move. "You know he's dead?" he said.

"Of course," said the woman who called herself Al Quds. "I was there."

"It'll be easier now," he said.

"Perhaps," said the woman. "Your turn."

Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn gazed down at the chessboard and moved his remaining knight. He was going to lose again. "It wasn't fair," he said. "Just sitting on a horse made him into a hero."

The woman laughed: a pleasant, strong sound. "If you seriously believe that having leprosy gave him an unfair advantage, I'm sure you could find a way of catching it."

He laughed too. "Good point," he said. Then: "He was a worthy adversary. I wanted to believe he wasn't, but he was. I wish he had lived."

They played in silence for a while. "What do you mean you were there?" said Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn at last. "You watched him die?"

"I held him in my arms and comforted him," said the woman.

"Whore," said Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn, without much animosity. "Traitor."

"You're not the first to call me a whore," said the woman, "and I doubt you'll be the last. But what I give, I give for free. And the mother cannot be traitor to the child, it is the children who betray their parents."

"Will you _not_ marry me?" asked Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn. It was a conversation they had had many times. "I will put away my other wives and concubines and be yours alone." He picked up his king and laid it on its side.

"Oh, my love," said the woman, touching his arm. "Stop seeking to possess me. It will only bring you misery. For a time I will be yours–"

"That's not enough," interrupted Ṣalāḥ ad-Dīn.

"And for eternity I am yours and his and everyone's."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm aware this is not the least problematic story I've ever written. I'm a bit uncomfortable myself with the 'disability as metaphor' trope, and realise that of all the geographical entities I could choose to personify, Jerusalem must be one of the ones most fraught with potential for offence. Add the fact that the 12th century is most definitely Not My Period, and it may be a recipe for disaster.
> 
> It would be disingenous to apologise, since I obviously thought it was worth posting, so I guess this note is here to say that if you want to use the comments to unpick any of these issues, I will not have a problem with that.


End file.
